My Life in Drugs
by sydedalus
Summary: A look at House’s life in vignettes revolving around instances of drug use from his adolescence to the present. Despite the title, this is not written in first person. Gen. Some episode fills. WIP.
1. Nicotine I

**Title:** My Life in Drugs  
**By: **sy dedalus  
**Rating:** T for drug use, language, and possible sexual content  
**Characters:** House-centric  
**Spoilers: **Seasons 1 and 2  
**Summary: **A look at House's life in vignettes revolving around instances of drug use from his adolescence to the present. Despite the title, this is not written in first person. Gen. Some episode fills. WIP.  
**Disclaimer I: **These characters aren't mine, obviously, and I don't claim any right to them. They belong to Fox, David Shore, whomever. Any additional quotes belong to the person to whom the quote is attributed.  
**Disclaimer II:** This fic deals in part with the illegal use of illegal drugs. I don't advocate using any illicit substances. Given the many hints about House's varied drug use on this show, it makes for something good to write about—but not something good to do, unless you like prison. So just say no to drugs, etc.

**A/N:** I thought this would be a fun little write to tide me over the difficulties my other fics give me. I plan to write three or four vignettes per drug and go in chronological order of House's first experience with each. So the first three or four will be about nicotine, the next about marijuana, etc. But that may change. To reiterate disclaimer II, don't do as House does. Except for the doctor part, his life has turned out pretty crappy so far.

Reviews much appreciated!

* * *

**Nicotine I**

"House."

House kept walking, hefting a backpack laden with textbooks on algebra, European history, biology, and American government, a ratty copy of _Huckleberry Finn _in his hip pocket. He wasn't interested taking a bloody nose home with his books and having to listen to another lecture from his father about honor and self-defense, so he dropped his eyes to the ground and pretended not to have heard anything.

"Hey! House!"

He stopped with a sigh. He'd tried outrunning the gang once but they were taller, stronger, and faster, and running only made them angrier. He had a scar to prove it.

"Hey, man, wait up," one of the boys said.

House steeled himself as the gang walked quickly toward him. He noticed that they didn't look especially menacing today, but he'd learned long ago that looks were usually deceiving.

The boys circled around him in the hot Arizona sun. He forced himself to stand still and not tremble under their shadows.

"Look, man, me and Jeff saw you put that stuff in Mr. Nichols' coffee in math," one of the boys said.

"So?" House replied, eyes still on the ground.

"Hey, that was cool, how he bent over and ran out of class." The boy's voice sounded happy.

House looked up. Yes. The boy was smiling.

The boy slapped him on the back and others in the group groaned dramatically, "oh, my stomach." More hands slapped his back and he began to smile too.

The chatter died down and the lead boy spoke again.

"Really cool for a military dork. What'd you do it for?"

House shrugged slightly. "I don't like him," he said in a squeaky voice. "Gives us too much homework. He's an asshole."

_Just like my dad_, he added to himself. The rarely-used curse word tasted potent and salty in his mouth, and he stood taller.

He didn't really hate the teacher—it was just, Mr. Nichols was so strict and mean, just like dad—and he'd spent most of the day feeling bad about what he'd done, but now he felt kind of good about it. It had gotten him out of a beating and the boys kind of admired him for it as far as he could tell.

The lead boy nodded. "Yeah, that's how we feel."

The other boys joined in with a chorus of 'yeah's and 'I hate that asshole's.

"Shut up!" the lead boy commanded.

He leaned in closer to House and deftly bumped a single cigarette out of a pack he'd produced from nowhere.

"Ever had one?" he asked.

"Yeah," House lied, "all the time."

A few of the other boys snickered. The leader eyed them sharply and they stopped.

"All right," the leader said, "light up with us."

He put an arm around House's neck and escorted him toward the alley the gang had called him from. He shook the package again and House took the cigarette nervously.

Both of his parents smoked. His dad never said anything about it, but mom always told him he should never start and that she wanted to quit but it was so hard and when dad was gone—and that's why he shouldn't ever start, because it was so hard to quit and it made you smell bad, your clothes and skin and hair, and made your teeth yellow.

But. So what? They did it, why shouldn't he?

Crowded behind a dumpster and out of view from the street, the leader popped another cigarette out of the pack and took it in his mouth.

"Keeps me mellow when my old man gets on me," he said.

House noticed vaguely through the sharp, metallic taste of anticipation that the other boys were producing cigarettes from their own packs.

The leader struck a lighter with his thumb and held it out.

_New guy goes first_, House thought, hyper-aware of the importance of this test. Quickly, he put the cigarette between his lips and stuck his neck out toward the flame.

He held the cigarette in the flame for over a second before he thought to inhale. When he did, he coughed hard and cursed, eyes watering.

Some of the boys laughed while the leader lit his own cigarette and casually released a plume of smoke.

House stopped coughing with a curse and looked up through wet, smoke-filled eyes. The leader regarded him carefully, inhaling again and forcing smoke out of his nose like a bull.

"You must be used to lights," the leader said.

"Yeah, that's it," House choked. "This is strong stuff."

The leader inhaled. "Sure is." His challenging glare doused the remaining giggles.

"Yeah," House said in a strained voice.

He inhaled again, this time much more slowly. He coughed the smoke out, but not as hard.

He desperately wanted to be home having a drink of water and a snack in the kitchen with his mom. She'd have a peanut butter sandwich and an apple ready and waiting for him. She'd want to know about his day.

Instead, he drew another smoky breath.

The group shifted slightly and House sensed that he was no longer the subject of their attention.

As if on cue, one of the other boys started a new topic.

"Look what I stole from my dad," he said slyly, pulling a rolled magazine out of his back pocket, but House was barely paying attention.

By the time he got home, school had been over for nearly two hours and his mom had been so worried that she'd called his dad at work.

"We almost called the police on you, boy," his father growled, shaking him by the shirt collar. "You scared your mother to death! Where were you?"

House began muttering something about being asked by Mr. Nichols to tutor a kid in his algebra class when his mother burst out,

"Gregory, have you been _smoking_?"

House stared agape at his mother—how had she known?—then down at the floor. He murmured something unintelligible. Fear and shame burned from his spine to his fingertips.

His father's hold on his shirt collar tightened. "Answer your mother, boy."

But he couldn't look up and he couldn't answer that question. He heard her begin to cry softly. His heart pumped acid.

When his father drug him to the back bedroom and made him pull down his pants, he didn't resist. He grunted, nails digging into his palms, and tears ran from his eyes at each of the five lashes from his father's leather belt, but he didn't cry out.

Exiled to his bedroom, he listened to them purposefully not talking to each other, smelled meatloaf and potatoes being cooked, eaten, and washed up, and watched the sun go down lying on his belly in his darkened bedroom.

Later, after he'd heard his father go to sleep, mom crept into his room. She put a hand on the back of his head and he heard the clink of a plate and glass on his night table. He smelled ham and bread and milk, and a faint hint of mom's perfume with the solid, earthy smell of mom herself underneath it. Her hand was warm and gentle. He heard her breathing lightly. He feigned sleep, his eyes wet again, until the door to his room closed.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't thank her for the sandwich and milk, and he couldn't quiet his snarling stomach by consuming them.


	2. Cocaine I

Disclaimers, etc. in chapter 1.

**A/N:** Not surprisingly, I'm taking this thing out of order, skipping some of the nicer drugs, which I'll go back to, to go to this one. For clarification, House is about 20 and the year is about 1979 in this scene. Regarding the plausibility of it, remember Wilson's comment at the end of "Autopsy" about House knowing his way around a razor blade and the inevitable antihistamine snort. Those writers love to pass out juicy tidbits for speculation…

* * *

**Cocaine I**

Crandall looked at him expectantly, his face broad and leaping like an excited puppy's. The neon blues, greens, and reds of Bourbon Street burst behind him from a block away in series of unnatural, kaleidoscopic halos.

House's eyes flickered from Crandall's face to the gigantic sweaty black woman easing out of the doorway of a darkened house to the flash of white powder in her hand. Without preface, he grabbed Crandall by the jacket and pulled him away from the woman.

"I always knew you were gullible, Crandall," he said with a maliciousness not at all curbed by the alcohol in his system, "but I didn't know you were stupid too." He threw the fistful of Crandall's jacket back at him. "How much did that cost you?"

"No, G-Man, you got it all wrong," Crandall implored. "She saw us play last night. She wants me." He grinned. "Said she wants you too."

"The hell," House replied. "Her kids 'll rob you before you get your pants off. You'll be lucky to get out alive."

"C'mon, man," Crandall whined, his face stretching into the only other expression he had by House's calculation: the sad puppy. "I love her."

"You love every woman who looks at you," House snapped.

The poorly-lit street was crawling with people who'd sooner cut him than look at him, House knew, and it made him nervous, never mind the fact that Crandall was already so committed to the situation. Damn him for having to drag someone else down with him.

Crandall's face turned from sad puppy to hurt puppy. Right. The third look. House had forgotten about that one.

"You owe me, G-Man," Crandall said.

House cursed under his breath. "It isn't free," he growled at Crandall.

The greasy woman was waiting on the two of them, weaving in and out of the doorway, her eyes darting up and down the street.

House put a foot on the lowest of the three steps leading to the doorway and leaned toward her.

"I'll give you fifty," he said, nodding at the small plastic bag in the woman's hand.

"Half gram," the woman answered sleepily. "Worth two-hundred."

House mounted the first step and stood to his full height. "That's a quarter gram—probably an eighth, since you cut it with baking soda or rat poison," he said. "Fifty bucks is more than it's worth."

She stared stolidly down at him, ready to yawn at any moment in the early summer heat.

"Cops are after you," House continued. "Or you wouldn't waste your time on guys like him." He nodded back at Crandall. "You need someone easy and you need to get rid of that."

He eyed her again, his body straining outward, expecting to be jumped by some lean kid with a razor at any time.

"Two white boys, two hours' solid alibi and you get to get rid of it," House offered. "Fifty."

She blinked slowly at him, sizing him up again. Smart for a kid who obviously wasn't from the neighborhood. Smart-mouthed too. She liked his friend better.

"Seventy-five," she countered.

"Fifty," House repeated.

"Sixty."

"Done."

House yanked Crandall by the jacket again. The woman moved aside to let them in and quickly closed the door.

The dingy, rotting room was lit by a single red light bulb. House could hear the crunch of cockroaches under his shoes. He propelled Crandall toward the woman as a distraction and hurriedly produced three twenties. That left one twenty, which he resolved to hide in his underwear as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

"Go easy on him," he said, fingering the money on his pocket, "he's in love."

He held out the money with one hand and reached for the bag with the other. They snatched at each other, House at the bag, the woman at the money.

He followed her eyes to a corner of the room where a small table held a mirror and razor blade. Crandall was already pushing himself inexpertly on the woman.

She led Crandall to a dirty mattress on the floor and House retired to his corner. Crandall owed him big now. He couldn't re-sell this stuff—not without getting knifed in the gut—and now he was stuck for two hours in this decaying room watching Crandall paw a disinterested woman twice his size.

Well, he considered as he opened the bag and emptied a portion of it on the dingy mirror, couldn't hurt to give it a try. Slowhand Clapton did it okay, wrote a song about it. Not that he was any Clapton, not with a guitar, but he might be able to take Slowhand on a piano on a good night.

The last user had left a piece of a plastic drinking straw with the razor blade. Didn't take a genius to figure this one out, House mused. Crandall made a particularly disgusting noise and House scrunched his face up. The sooner he was on another planet, the better.

He separated a line from the small pile and began chopping into finer and finer powder. He'd observed the process backstage before, but had never participated. Of course, if a drug addict could do it, it had to be pretty simple. He found that it was pretty simple.

Crandall made another despicable noise and House decided the line was as fine as it needed to be given the circumstances. Taking the straw, he bent down, closed one nostril with a finger, and snuffed hard and fast.

He was convinced he was God for about half an hour.


	3. Cocaine II

Disclaimers, etc. in chapter 1.

**A/N: **House told Wilson in "Who's Your Daddy" that he cared about making sure Crandall didn't get screwed over by his "daughter" because he (House) had kept Crandall from marrying someone by having an affair (of sorts) with her. Could be that House owed Crandall for another reason, which I now present to you. (I never realized until I was writing this chapter that Crandall is a sort of forerunner for Wilson – except that Wilson at age 40 is very different from Crandall at age 20 – those 20 years make a huge difference, no?)

Also, a quick note about all these drugs. As I understand it – and I don't really understand it, since I wasn't around in 1980 and this is all based on research – the average twenty-year-old in the late 70's had had the opportunity to experiment with a fair amount of drugs. Given House's rebellious and adventurous personality, it's a fair bet that he took many of those opportunities. But the drug landscape was also very different in the 60's and 70's when House was growing up. House was 10 in 1969, for instance, when LSD had only just been made illegal and the war on drugs hadn't yet been declared in the U.S. Smokers were becoming second-class citizens, but they weren't demonized like they are now. Alcohol wasn't considered the scourge of youth it is today. It was a different world. Americans didn't really get serious about drug abuse for any extended period of time until the mid-to-late 1980's (when all those kids who were 20 in 1980 became yuppies and started having kids of their own). In 1980, cocaine was the "it" drug (like ecstasy is now) and it was viewed by much of the population as less harmful than it's viewed as now. This is due in large part to crack's not having been invented at that point in drug history – or, if it had been, not having hit the U.S. yet (that happened in '83). Plus, House is in a band at this time: drug use was expected if not encouraged in most bands in 1980. Add in the extremely addictive cocaine high and you've got this chapter. Just to let you know where I'm coming from with these various drug experiences for young House...

Setting note: this takes place a few months after the Cocaine I scene. It's summer. House is 21 now. Still in New Orleans.

* * *

_I love this city, man,  
but this city's killing me_

—Gomez, "Get Miles"

**Cocaine II**

Cold and shaking despite the stifling heat in the bathroom, House leaned against the dirty, graffiti-smeared wall of the stall. It was the only thing holding him up right now and he knew it. If he just had another hit, he could go out and play this gig and then he'd have some cash and he could stop this. Blood dripped on his pants' leg—the last pair he had, he'd sold the rest—and he dabbed his nose with his shirt tail. Couldn't sniff that stuff back inside of him.

Sticky Buns Carter banged a meaty fist against the stall door. "Show's starting, G-Man, c'mon."

"Can't do it," House said weakly. "Sick."

"Man, you're not sick," Sticky Buns retorted. "We all know. We ain't dumb. You better cut it out or you're gone. Now c'mon, can't play no show without no piano man."

"Can't do it," House murmured.

Sticky Buns smacked the door with his palm and cursed loudly. "This the last time I work with a goddamn coke fiend. Look, man, no gig, no bread, so you come on outta there and give us something."

House's heart was pounding hard and fast, flashing against his head like angry lights, and each second took several seconds to pass. He needed a hit so bad, and anyway how was he gonna play a show when he couldn't feel his fingers?

All this he wanted to yell at Sticky Buns, wanted to charge him and bust him up, take his money, surely someone would be dealing outside the show, but he couldn't even move. The blood trickling from his nose was the only thing that felt good. He couldn't get warm even with the close, hot air pressing in as more people arrived at the club.

He repeated what he'd been saying, that he was too sick to play, but no words came out of his mouth. Sticky Buns had been standing out there for hours. Why wouldn't he go away?

"Here."

Sticky Buns slid a half-drunk bottled beer under the stall door.

"Drink that quick. We got whisky and a joint backstage, make you feel better. Hurry your ass up in there."

He heard Sticky Buns muttering about coke addicts and the bathroom door slammed shut.

He didn't want a beer, dammit, he wanted a hit. He panted through his mouth, blood from his nose mixing with saliva and running down his neck and under his shirt. It wasn't warm enough to help, though. He was so cold. The cool metal of the stall wall against his head was torture, but he couldn't move right now. He needed a damn hit. Flashes of himself yelling at Sticky Buns and knocking him down with a hard right hook, or staring a bar fight with a well-aimed bottle so he could pick a few pockets while the audience cracked each other's skulls open filled his head, but he just couldn't move.

He felt something on his arm—damned cockroaches, bad enough that he had to sleep with them in the hotel-by-day brothel-by-night where the band was staying, now they were following him when he was awake.

He brushed it off.

It was still there.

He brushed it off again.

It wouldn't come off.

Suddenly it dove under his skin. He screamed and scratched frantically with numb fingers at his arm—it was in there, he felt it moving, wriggling and crawling and laying eggs—and suddenly it multiplied, all the eggs hatched, and a dozen cockroaches ran under his skin up and down his arm, itching and breeding—and now running up his arm—he clawed his neck with both hands, couldn't let them get to his brain, couldn't let them get—and then they were there and he felt them crawling behind his eyeballs and in and out of his ears and under his scalp. He twitched and clawed, scratching at every inch of skin he had, and in his frenzy, he fell off of the toilet and hit his head against the stall door, then lay on the ground in a puddle of warm beer and blood screaming and writhing because they were everywhere.

He screamed for hours. For days. The roaches hatched ten bugs for every one he killed, he couldn't keep up.

Later, when the gig was over, Crandall found him spread out on the floor taking up two stalls. Someone—no, several people—had kicked his legs out of the way to use the toilet in the open stall and had missed, hitting his pants and shoes instead. Crandall wrinkled his nose. Some of them had missed pretty badly.

Crandall pulled the stall door until it opened. House looked up at him with unseeing eyes.

"Hey, G-Man, Sticky Buns says you're out," Crandall said. He laughed. "Crazy bastard made me play your part. _Me_! Can't believe they still paid us and I didn't get my head knocked off by the crowd."

He nudged House's shoulder with a foot. House kept staring at him. Crandall squatted next to his head, noticing for the first time the dried blood on his face and shirt.

"You're pretty messed up, G-Man," he said matter-of-factly, just drunk enough that the gravity of the situation hadn't registered yet. "Come on. I'll take you back to the hotel. The guys won't be back for hours and they got paid, so they don't care. Sticky Buns is kinda mad though cause he's gotta replace you before the next gig."

Crandall moved until he was next to House's head and scooped House up by the shoulders, dragging him out of the stall.

"You lost a lotta weight since the last time I carried you out of bar," Crandall remarked.

Now that House was in the pallid yellow-green light of the bathroom, Crandall could see the scratches up and down his arms.

"Jesus, what'd you do?" he asked with slowly-dawning horror.

Most of the scratches lit up in the pale florescence because of little trails of blood marking each one. House's fingernails were sharp and jagged from the knife he used to cut them.

"You're pretty sick, G-Man," Crandall observed. "You should go home."

Crandall hefted House to his feet and leaned him against the wall. He let go and House's reflexes kicked in before he could slump to the ground.

Now Crandall noticed the blood on his jeans and shirt tail. "Jesus," he whispered.

House looked back at him with dull, sick eyes.

"I'm sorry, G-Man," Crandall said softly. "I didn't mean to get you into this."

"You didn't get me into anything," House croaked, his voice all but gone from screaming. "I make my own choices."

Crandall wasn't convinced. "Yeah, well…" he began.

He stopped himself as House started to sway.

"Just come on."

Crandall slipped an arm under House and pulled him forward.

* * *

Hours later, House sat on a curb outside a Greyhound bus station. Nearly asleep under the dirty, moth-ridden all-nite lights, he was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans on loan from Crandall, the jeans tied with a piece of rope because they were two sizes too big and tended to slip down when he walked, and wrapped in a stained blanket stolen from the hotel. The beignets and soda Crandall had forced on him from a stand outside the bar rumbled in his stomach. He hadn't been hungry then and he wasn't hungry now. He wanted a hit, but Crandall wouldn't let him near any money and he knew now that he was too weak and tired to take Crandall on.

"Hey. I talked to the driver," Crandall said, appearing from nowhere. "He's going all the way to D.C. himself. Your folks are still in North Carolina, right? Yeah. Anyway, he's got another guy who's gonna take over for him in Atlanta but he's gonna stay on. He says he's got a brother that had trouble with heroin. He understands you need to get home."

He squatted next to House.

"Now, look, I gave him some money and told him you can't get off anywhere until you get to D.C. Give me your parents' number and I'll call 'em when the sun's up."

House grumbled, but gave Crandall the number. He didn't want to go home, but he couldn't stay here. That left nowhere else to go.

"Hey," he said, making sure Crandall had his attention. "Don't scare her, okay? Just tell her where I'll be and when. Just tell her I'm visiting."

The concern on House's face didn't escape Crandall's notice.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay." Then he nudged House. "Come on," he said. "Bus is leaving in fifteen, they'll let you on already."

Crandall led him on to the bus, nodding at the driver, and settled him in a window seat near the back.

"There's the john," Crandall gestured toward the back of the bus, "and here's some milk and crackers."

Crandall produced a pint of milk and a box of saltines from a bag he had, putting them in the seat next to House.

"The driver'll get you some water if you ask and probably a sandwich too." He offered House a folded piece of paper. "Here's a map of the route. It's a long way but you'll be there tonight. This one's going express. Not a lot of stops."

The map ended up in the seat next to House, too. He was cold and uninterested.

"And here's some vitamins they were selling inside." Crandall offered him a sealed package labeled 'Vitamins from the Land for Today's Busy Man' with a smiling farmer waving from a tractor.

House, who'd been paying attention up to that point, turned his head away and looked out of the window.

"Look, G-Man," Crandall said, "I'm gonna call your parents tomorrow too and if they say you never got there, I'll tell your mom about the coke."

That got House's attention again. His eyes shifted tiredly over to Crandall. "You wouldn't."

"Man, you stay here and you're gonna die," Crandall said. "Just be cool until tonight and get back with your folks."

Crandall held out two quarters. "For phone calls," he said.

House took them and slipped them in his jeans' pocket with effort. He wanted Crandall to go away so he could go to sleep. When the jitters he'd experienced in the bathroom at the bar came back at the hotel, Crandall had swiped a few sleeping pills from someone's stash and offered him one. House had taken it gratefully. Now Crandall held out two more.

"Don't take them now," Crandall instructed as House pocketed the pills. "Long trip. Space 'em out."

House just looked at him, having no strength to do anything else.

"The driver's got some more money for you when you get there," Crandall said. "It's not a lot. Not enough for anything but some food, okay? In case your folks are late."

House looked away again.

"I'm serious, G-Man," Crandall said. "I'll call them tomorrow and if you're not there…"

"Okay, I get it," House grumbled.

Crandall straightened up. "All right. Look, take care of yourself, okay? Look me up when you get clean. Maybe Sticky won't be mad any more."

"Yeah."

House closed his eyes. Dimly he heard Crandall leaving. He was at the end of a long, hard crash. Sleep stretched out into a long tunnel and he followed it, never closing any part of the distance between himself and the tunnel's end. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. He was used to everything being really, really good.

Later, someone nudged him and he woke up slowly.

"Hey, buddy."

House looked up. It was the driver.

"Your friend said to give you this."

House took the sandwich and bottled soda the driver offered him.

"We're in Atlanta," the driver said. "Get to D.C. pretty soon." The driver appraised him. "That's a good friend you got. I'd be mighty thankful to him if it were me."

House watched him move back up the aisle. Mechanically, he unwrapped the sandwich and ate it. He drank the soda in a few long gulps. He felt nothing about Crandall or being forced to sit on this half-crowded bus in the summer heat; he wasn't capable of feeling right now, except to feel in his bones how he needed a hit. He took another sleeping pill instead. At least it was something.

Once the bus was moving again, he closed his eyes, finally warm under the blanket with the southern heat all around.

He woke up somewhere in Virginia, and ate the crackers and drank some of the curdling milk. He slept again before he could reach for the last pill.

The driver nudged him at the D.C. terminal. Leaving the blanket behind without realizing it, he weaved through the aisle and down the steps, forgetting why he was in D.C. until he saw her.

"Mom," he said, a smile automatically forming on his face.

Blythe hugged him tightly. "Greg," she said into his shoulder. "I didn't think I'd see you again. When your friend called this morning, I—"

"It's okay," he interrupted, hugging her back. He was more awake now that he'd walked around a little and he sensed the tension in her body and voice. The consequences of the past few months were beginning to reach through to him now.

"I'm okay," he repeated.

But she'd already felt how thin he was and she'd seen his ashen face.

"You're sick, honey," she said, pulling back and brushing the long hair away from his forehead with a palm. "What happened?"

House hesitated. "I'm okay," he said. "Let's just go home."

She smiled sadly at him, dissatisfied with his answer but so happy to have him back where she could hold him and keep him safe that it didn't matter.

"Okay," she said and put an arm around him, leading him to the car.

When Crandall called the next morning, Blythe reported that her son was home but too ill to come to the phone. Then she thanked him profusely and they spoke for over an hour about what had happened.

Crandall told her how most of the musicians he'd met were addicted to something, that it was a trap waiting for everyone that no one should ever have to fall into, but that it happened all the time. He told her about some of the good times, too, and she even laughed a little.

He asked about how House was getting on. Blythe guardedly reported that she'd taken him to a local doctor who was going to run some blood tests to see if he'd done any permanent damage and who'd given him Valium to ease the transition. He also recommended a treatment program that had helped a lot of local vets who'd had drug trouble in Vietnam. She was optimistic about his recovery. She dropped in that his father was away for the week doing special consulting and training in California. Crandall noticed and sent up a quick thanks for that small mercy.

They hung up feeling relieved of a great burden of knowledge. Now they both knew the same things and knowing wasn't so lonely and difficult. House, who was such a loner by nature, wasn't alone any more either.

Blythe reflected that Dylan was a lovely young man as she crept down the hall toward the guest room. The soft, still sound of her son sleeping deeply and the gentle whir of a ceiling fan were the only sounds in the house. Silent in the doorway, she watched his chest rise and fall under a pajama top she'd given him two Christmases ago that now billowed around his empty frame. She stood there for such a long time that her legs ached when she finally moved away from him.


	4. Hallucinogens I

Disclaimers, etc. in chapter 1.

**A/N:** The setting of this one is late college or early medical school, depending on whether advanced organic chemistry is part of medical school. House is 22 or 23. Also, many thanks to those who have reviewed! I appreciate knowing what you think about a scene or chapter. Gracias!

* * *

_Last Friday, April 16, 1943, I was forced to stop my work in the laboratory in the middle of the afternoon and to go home, as I was seized by a peculiar restlessness associated with a sensation of mild dizziness. On arriving home, I lay down and sank into a kind of drunkenness which was not unpleasant and which was characterized by extreme activity of imagination. As I lay in a dazed condition with my eyes closed (I experienced daylight as disagreeably bright) there surged upon me an uninterrupted stream of fantastic images of extraordinary plasticity and vividness and accompanied by an intense, kaleidoscope-like play of colors. This condition gradually passed off after about two hours._

—Albert Hoffman, address given to Arthur Stoll, Sandoz pharmaceutical department head, regarding the initial synthesis of LSD-25, 22 April 1943

**Hallucinogens I**

_Absorbed it through the skin_, House thought with a smile as he worked, gloveless for the first time, in the one of the organic chem. labs.

It was late now. He hadn't eaten since lunch, hoping to avoid the on-set nausea he recalled from a few youthful experiences with mushrooms, but his stomach fluttered nevertheless. Judging by its beginning ten minutes ago, he only had another ten to wait before he wouldn't care much if he felt sick or not.

He'd paused to observe the substance for a moment when a voice from the doorway made him jump.

"Mr. House."

His heart raced. He hadn't even heard the door opening. But he was still in control enough of himself to affect an outward calm.

"Dr. Noyes," he answered.

"No gloves I see," Noyes said, strolling into the room with his hands behind his back. Noyes' fading Swiss accent drifted lazily across the cavernous room.

House could tell from Noyes' expression that his organic chem. professor knew exactly what he was doing.

"Oops," he responded, eyes leveled on the approaching man.

Noyes came to a stop and leaned against the lab station next to House's.

"You got pretty far along," Noyes said, not without some approval.

He glanced over the chemicals at House's station, though he didn't need to.

"Separated the isometric forms," he noted, "and added the tartaric acid."

"Just about finished," House confirmed.

Noyes eyed him critically. "And you could have been gone by now if you'd worn your gloves," he said. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Everyone wants to be Hoffman."

House smirked, knowing that if Noyes wanted to lecture, he'd simply have to wait it out. Noyes was long-winded and tended to keep a student around until he was finished with his spiel. But now some of House's suspicions about this experiment were beginning to make sense.

"I knew it was too easy," House said.

Noyes' settled into a thin-lipped smile.

"One of you tries it ever year," he said. "After the first ten, I learned it was easier to leave the Ergoline out in the spring rather than replace the glass pane in the supply cabinet annually and explain the matter to the dean. That man has the shortest memory…"

House had no plan for getting himself out of this situation. If anyone else had come upon him, he could have talked his way out of it. But not Noyes. The man had an uncanny ability to sense deception, particularly in his students, and he was the one person on the faculty who could glance at a set of chemicals and know what one was up to immediately. House hated him and admired him at the same time. But while he knew he couldn't get out of this situation, instinct told him he should try to anyway. He would keep Noyes talking. Maybe some loophole would present itself.

"How many finish?" House asked.

"About half," Noyes answered, his eyes traveling over the lab station, inspecting it for cleanliness. "With the others, I have this conversation before they cause any damage to themselves or school property."

Noyes' eyes returned to House's with something akin to a challenge in them.

Now House appraised Noyes. He knew someone had been tampering with his work. In fact, although Noyes' appearance had initially surprised him, he'd almost expected him to turn up sooner or later.

"I knew it," House said, unable to keep the discovery to himself. "The past two nights, I've put everything away on the first shelf instead of the second, and both times you put them back on the wrong shelf."

Noyes' smile widened just a bit. "Attention to detail, Mr. House," he said. "That's why you made it to the end."

House noticed the slight widening of Noyes' eyes in addition to the change in his smile.

"I'm the first one who's caught you," he said confidently.

"You're the first one who's said anything about it," Noyes parried, a small frown appearing in the corner of his eyes.

House's ego doubled: Noyes thought he was too sneaky to get caught and now that he had been, he was put out.

"So," House said, leaning forward over his successful experiment, "what do you typically do about these extracurricular activities?"

Noyes smiled. "To begin, you get a special final exam," he said. "In twenty years, only four students have passed it."

House made himself return Noyes' smile to cover the squeezing in his stomach, which had nothing to do with the LSD he'd synthesized this time.

Noyes checked his watch. "And since you've picked a good night to conclude your research, we will prepare the sample in accordance with custom—" he tossed a box of sugar cubes, produced from his jacket, on to the lab table "—and adjourn to my office. Tomorrow morning you may take one third of it away with you. I will dispose of the remainder."

House narrowed his eyes at Noyes but still saw no way around the man. Possession of a Schedule I substance meant jail time for him, but for Noyes, a renown professor with years of tenure?

Deciding that he liked the smarmy Swiss bastard after all, House donned a pair of gloves and slid an expectant dish over to Noyes and the sugar cube box.


	5. Opiod Analgesics I

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

* * *

**Opiod Analgesics I (Codeine)**

Greg looked up at Mom.

Doctor Dennis had gone away.

Mom was still upset.

She called it upset when he felt like everything inside him was going to burst because it had all turned rotten. Mom was upset.

And he liked Doctor Dennis but he wished this had never happened and they were back at home or on the train going to see the Frauenkirche. He'd been practicing all week how to say it right: Frow. En. Kir. K. The boy Kenny in 36 said that it was just a big dumb building but he was a liar.

Greg liked people on the train, hearing them talk German. They were called Germans and they talked German, and he was called American but he talked English. Mom had explained about England but she agreed with him that why wasn't it just called American, the way he talked?

He knew about America because Mom said he was born there and he remembered when he was really, really tiny, a lot smaller than he was now because he was big now, that she said all the time "When the war is over and Daddy comes home, we'll go to America."

He knew about the war. That was the big far away thing that everyone went to and didn't come back from for a long time. Dad was always happy when he came back from the war. He always brought a new airplane. First the airplanes were just metal but now because the teachers said he was a gifted young boy and should be challenged by his environment, Dad brought home airplanes in boxes and showed him how to put them together.

Dad always called him Marine and said when he was big enough, he could fly the airplanes too like Dad did. Then Dad put his right hand over his eye, it was called a salute he knew now, and said "Semper Fi Marine." He knew he couldn't say Semper Fi back yet just Yes Sir or Thank You Sir because you had to earn it and you couldn't talk back to Dad anyway. Then Dad always had to go back to the war and Mom said again how when the war was over and Dad was home, they would all go to America and he could have a dog at last. The boy Kenny in 36 said how he always had a dog in America but Greg knew Kenny was a lousy, rotten liar but he still wanted a dog anyway.

Cautiously, he breathed in deeper. The sharp stab in his shoulder came back and he whimpered before he could stop himself.

Mom looked down at him when the noise ran out of his mouth even though he didn't open his mouth and she looked ready to burst and then her warm hand came down soft on his head. He didn't mean to whimper. You couldn't be a Marine and fly planes if you whimpered a lot. Plus big boys never whimpered at all and he was a big boy, a whole four years old which was two times two years old which he'd been two years ago when he was very small and Dad brought him metal airplanes. He would be five next year but you couldn't make two go into five though you could make five times two. That made ten.

Mom looked away again like she did sometimes when she said she wasn't crying but he knew she was but she wasn't really a liar. He wished this had never happened. He had been sitting on the kitchen counter playing Ambush while Mom made lunch when one of the good guys had fallen off. He reached out to catch the good guy and then he was on the floor and he couldn't breathe. He didn't remember a loud crack but Mom said to Doctor Dennis there was a loud crack. He didn't even cry. He wanted to, but he couldn't. When he could breathe again, he sat up. Mom was worried and touching him all over, mostly on his head, and asking what hurt, but he didn't have to say what hurt because when he sat up, his left arm didn't sit up with him. He knew it was his left arm and not his right arm because he tried to make an 'L' with his right thumb and forefinger and it came out backwards, so it was his left arm that didn't sit up. It just stayed in his lap. It hurt a lot but he didn't cry. Mom told Doctor Dennis that he just grunted but he didn't remember that either.

But it didn't hurt very much anymore. Just when he breathed deep like before he went swimming. He wasn't going swimming though so he didn't have to breathe deep. But sometimes he wanted to.

His foot kicked accidentally against the metal table and made a bang. He stopped swinging his legs, even though he hadn't realized he had been swinging them in the first place. But when he looked at Mom she had a little smile that meant it was okay about kicking the table but the big thing wasn't okay yet. But then her hand touched his head warm again and it was okay enough.

He looked around the room for the billionth time. Nothing was very interesting in this room. Not like the room they'd just come from with the big metal machine that was shivery when he had to take his shirt off, and that had really really hurt but he was big and didn't cry any, but he wasn't scared when he had to sit inside it and hold his breath deep like he was swimming because Doctor Dennis said it was going to take a picture of his bones inside and he would get to look at it and maybe take it home.

That was kind of fun even if it hurt and he really had gotten to look at the picture of his bones. But Doctor Dennis had taken it away and now the room was boring again. He read the big black letters on the poster that showed the insides of someone's ear again:

O-T-I-T-I-S. M-E-D-I-A.

He tried to sound it out inside his head but that wasn't very fun. Instead he wondered why the ear on the poster was red and pink and yellow when the picture of his insides was black and white.

He almost asked Mom why the picture was one color but his own picture was another when Doctor Dennis came back. He had a bottle and a spoon. Greg's lips automatically tried to squeeze inside his mouth like they did when Gramma kissed him. She smelled like medicine too.

"All right, Mrs. House," Doctor Dennis said, "this will just about fix him up."

Then Doctor Dennis looked at him and bent down a little.

"How are you doing, Marine Greg?" Doctor Dennis asked in a serious voice that was really just play-serious.

Doctor Dennis called him Marine too but it was Marine Greg not just Marine. He wished Dad would call him Marine Greg sometimes. Doctor Dennis was tall and had big muscles like Dad did.

"All right, sir," he answered. Men in uniforms were called sir and women were called ma'am.

"Okay, Marine," Doctor Dennis said with a big smile. "But I bet your shoulder still hurts, huh?"

"Yes, sir," he said in a small voice, thinking that it wasn't his shoulder that was broken, it was his collar bone, or clavicle, which Doctor Dennis should know because he'd just said so ten minutes ago when he brought the black and white picture of Greg's insides and showed how one of the ghost-white curvy lines had a crack in it. That was his collar bone. He wanted to touch it because he still liked to touch things when he named them, but it would hurt to touch it.

"Well, this is going to make it stop hurting," Doctor Dennis said.

Greg watched him open the bottle and pour out some red stuff. He smelled cherries.

He knew he shouldn't talk back to adults called sir but he couldn't help it.

"It doesn't hurt much, sir," he said bravely.

Doctor Dennis paused. "You're a tough Marine, aren't you, Marine Greg?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, even tough marines can have hurts sometimes and they need some medicine to make the hurt stop."

Greg cringed and tried to move back from Doctor Dennis but he took too big a breath and his clavicle stabbed again.

"It's okay, Marine Greg," Doctor Dennis said smiling. "This medicine tastes good. Like candy."

Greg watched him warily. Medicine never tasted like candy. He knew that. But he also sensed that he had no choice in the matter. Sure, he could scream and kick, but his clavicle really did hurt and he wasn't a baby anymore. At least it wasn't a shot.

Reluctantly, he opened his mouth.

The thick, syrupy liquid tasted like the cherry lollipop he'd discovered in a washing machine once, but worse. His instinct was to spit it out except he'd done that once when Dad was home and Dad made him stand with his nose touching the corner where the living room walls met for an hour and he couldn't stop coughing the whole time. So he swallowed the foul stuff, aware that he was making an ugly face but unable to stop it.

"There you go," Doctor Dennis said. "Not so bad, huh?"

"No, sir," Greg answered, knowing it was a lie.

He knew what happened to liars. Liars didn't get any dinner and had to take their baths in cold water before they went to bed early. But he couldn't say that it didn't taste good either because that was also calling Doctor Dennis a liar. On the gigantic exam table, his feet over a meter from the ground, Greg tried to make himself smaller so Doctor Dennis wouldn't notice him or the lie.

"That's a good marine," Doctor Dennis said.

He sounded like he was still smiling, but Greg didn't dare look up.

"Good marines get to pick their own color."

Now Greg did look up, too curious to stop himself.

Doctor Dennis held out a jar of lollipops. Where he'd found that jar, Greg didn't know. Doctor Dennis smiled as Greg cautiously reached for a red one. A real red cherry lollipop would fix the nasty taste in his mouth, but he wasn't sure he could trust the reality he saw unfolding before him. Usually he got a shot when he went to the doctor, after cold metal against his chest and a wooden stick stuck down his throat. This was new.

He had the lollipop in his hand. It was his now. He smiled very carefully. Sometimes if he smiled too big or at the wrong time he was being a smart aleck and smart alecks were nearly as bad as liars.

"That's a good boy." Doctor Dennis smiled again and put the jar down. He made a funny "oops" face. "A good _marine_," he said.

Greg smiled big. It was okay to smile big after the "oops" face.

"Okay, Mrs. House." Doctor Dennis turned to Mom with the medicine bottle and explained how he would have to take the medicine every four hours for a few days and then only when it hurt bad.

He listened, but he also wondered if he could have the lollipop now or if he should wait until they were back home. Gently, he touched the ridge in the middle of the lollipop where the stick was, trying not to make the plastic wrapper rustle. Children were quiet when adults spoke. So were children's toys.

Doctor Dennis talked to Mom for a long time, but he didn't know what Doctor Dennis said because the little ridges in the plastic wrapper on the lollipop were so interesting. His head felt funny like he had water in his ears but the wrapper was so interesting that he didn't care. He wanted to touch the plastic ridges but his arms felt heavy and good like when he was falling asleep and the lollipop seemed so far away now.

Next thing he knew, Doctor Dennis was talking to him again. He smiled at Doctor Dennis. Doctor Dennis was nice.

He watched quietly as Doctor Dennis slipped a dark blue sleeve with a white strap over his head like he was getting dressed, then put his arm inside the sleeve and adjusted the strap.

Doctor Dennis asked if it felt all right.

When he said Yes, Sir, his voice sounded far away like when he had water in his ears from swimming.

Doctor Dennis talked to Mom again. Now he stared at the blue sleeve over his arm. Doctor Dennis gave it a name because everything has a name but he couldn't remember the name. He felt sleepy and good.

Then his stomach felt like throwing up but he didn't throw up he just felt like he was going to. He tried to make a bad face but his face was sleepy and didn't want to move. He felt okay anyway because he usually threw up by now if he felt like this and since he didn't throw up he felt okay.

He didn't really want to get down when Doctor Dennis moved the stool under his feet, but Mom and Doctor Dennis helped him and he felt good standing beside Mom like he felt good sitting on the table. Except he kind of wanted to lie down.

"I'll call a pickup for you," Doctor Dennis said. "He shouldn't walk too far right now."

Greg watched Doctor Dennis' shoes move. Who shouldn't walk too far? But he didn't care anyway.

He kind of fell asleep because next someone was lifting him into a jeep and he tried to wake up because he never got to ride in jeeps and it always looked so fun, but then he was lifted out of the jeep in front of his house and he didn't remember the ride at all. He would tell Kenny in 36 that he did, though, even if it was a lie, because Kenny was a liar and liars deserved what they got.

Then Mom took off his pants and helped him into pajamas and he knew he was sleepy but it wasn't even nap time yet and he didn't take naps in his pajamas. It wasn't even lunch time yet, but his stomach didn't feel like eating. Mom moved the blue sleeve and took off his shirt and then he saw the big purple bruise and he woke up a little bit, but it didn't hurt, not even when Mom put his pajama shirt on and put the blue sleeve back.

He tried to climb into his bed but the bed went in circles and his arm wouldn't do what he told it to do, it only tugged the blue sleeve. He wanted to tell Mom that he wasn't that sleepy and he didn't mean to fall off the counter and break his clavicle, but that was whining and whiners had to go to bed early without any dinner the next night too. Even if he didn't want any dinner right now because his stomach felt like throwing up, he didn't want to put on his pajamas before lunch either. He never had to go to bed this early before. He didn't try to break his clavicle, he didn't mean it. He tried to tell Mom that but his mouth was full of peanut butter and he couldn't make the words come out.

Mom picked him up, telling him how heavy he was, and helped him snuggle under the blanket. He felt good lying down even if he didn't want to go to bed early because he hadn't meant to fall off the counter.

The ceiling ran fast in circles so he closed his eyes. He was a good Marine. When he was bad he wasn't a Marine he was only Son. He wasn't being Son, he tried to tell Mom, he was a Marine, and he didn't cry or complain or tell lies or make noise when adults talked.

He felt himself falling into the bed until he breathed in quickly and knew it was Mom sitting next to him. He didn't understand why he felt so funny and sleepy but good Marines didn't talk back and ask too many questions, and the ceiling ran in circles again when he opened his eyes.

Mom said Go to sleep.

She sounded worried but he felt good and sleepy and his mouth was stuffed with peanut butter.

Mom smelled close and warm and her hand touched his head and felt nice.

His eyes were closed.

He was falling asleep.

Falling and falling and falling.

Asleep.


	6. Marijuana I

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for the responses to the last chapter. I had most of it written before "One Room, One Day" aired. That episode got me to finish it. This chapter is completely new.

* * *

**Marijuana I**

It started a few months after he turned fourteen. New base. New school. New hierarchy in which he had to establish himself, or he'd be on the receiving end of wedgies and swirlies between classes and much worse in the shower after gym class. He hadn't had a chance the last few years to do much about his status as the short, gawky geek, but he'd grown nearly a foot in the past year and all the push-ups, chin-ups, and laps his dad made him complete had started to pay off. He'd even thought about joining the track and field team. Dad couldn't find fault with him when he was running. Marine trainees did a lot of running. And he could jerk off in peace in the shower afterward.

In fact, it happened in that oh-so-critical first group shower after gym on the first day of school. He was busy soaping his body and keeping his eyes fixed on the stained tile wall when a dry hand yanked his shoulder from behind.

"New guy, get out, you're done."

He blinked through wet, soapy eyes at another student two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than he was.

For a moment, he just stared. Clearly, this guy had chosen the first freshman he thought he could pick on; House knew at least two other guys from his gym class were smaller than he was, and he guessed they were both still rinsing off. But he knew this was his opportunity to establish himself. His dad had pushed him last night and this morning about his schedule. Dad wanted him to take American Government as an elective; he wanted to take Music Theory. Dad had called the school this morning to make sure he attended American Government. He'd pledged to fail the class and spent the entire period doodling, but he still burned enough to take a few swings. Dad had also been teaching him to box, which he assumed was just his dad's socially acceptable way of beating him up three times a week. What else could it be? Dad was still much bigger and stronger than he was. But now he saw the merit of the lessons.

Mildly, he met the other student's eyes.

"No, I'm not," he answered, selecting a punch combination as he turned back around and leaned into the spray.

He was ready when the other student jerked his arm, and he controlled the rate at which he spun.

"Yes, you are."

House watched as the guy's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He imagined the guy's fists balling; a bully like this wouldn't know to keep his thumbs outside of his fingers to keep them from breaking.

"I said I wasn't," House replied evenly.

He could feel the other boys' attention on him.

The guy inched closer and drew himself up to maximize his size. "You wanna go, new meat?"

The tension in the showers escalated. House could almost smell it. Anticipation. Hunger. They knew they were going to see a fight. For his part, House had a hard time caring what happened. This guy was nowhere near as big as his dad was; he knew he wouldn't get hurt much. If he'd been willing to admit it to himself, he'd be exhilarated by the prospect of starting a real bare-knuckled fight which he had some chance of winning. But he didn't care about anything. Not running, not Music Theory, not the few hits he got in on his dad every now and then, not the future, not the past, and certainly not the present.

House shrugged. "Fine. But if you don't pay, I don't put out."

House thought he could pinpoint the moment the other guy blew his top.

"You son of a bitch!"

And a poorly-formed fist connected with his jaw. Inwardly, House sniffed as he recoiled from the hit: his dad hit at least four times harder than that. And this guy definitely didn't know about keeping his thumb outside of his fist.

House moved his jaw back and forth calmly, the way his dad did on those rare occasions House connected with his face: expertly judging the hit, that was all. No surprise. No fear.

House met the other guy's eyes again. "All right." He watched anger rise in the guy's face in red blotches. "All right."

House dropped expertly into a balanced stance and delivered a right jab-left cross-right jab combination, sliding forward with each punch as the blows pushed the guy back.

Flesh smacked tile with a resounding thwack. House and the rest of the boys in the shower, along with a dozen other boys, some sweaty, some clean and wearing towels, who'd been attracted by the angry voices, watched the downed guy blink and turn his head to spit blood in the runoff sliding toward the drain.

House said nothing and looked at no one. He took a moment to wash a small spray of blood off of his hand, finished rinsing the soap out of his hair, and turned the water off. The bully had rolled on to his side, one hand clutching his face, the other cupping his genitals as though he was afraid House might kick him. Instead, House stepped over him, selected a towel, and negotiated the pack of surprised teens standing between him and his locker.

Slowly, regular conversation started up again: the hum of adolescent boys showing off, the whip-crack of rat-tailed towels.

House dressed in the neat khakis and collared shirt his father insisted he wear on the first day. He didn't touch his closely-cut hair and left the top button of his shirt open. Dad was home every night now, having been promoted. Now he trained pilots to do what he did all day, and at night he saw that even House's fingernails were kept neat.

Ready for the next period, House grabbed his backpack and migrated toward the urinals. The lack of supervision that had enabled him to bruise his knuckles surely extended to the usual activity conducted in boy's bathrooms. He could use a cigarette right now. He hadn't had one in weeks.

He spotted the guy who would have what he wanted: sitting in a windowed enclave five feet from the floor, long haired, sporting tattered clothing; he didn't have to be smoking, and he wasn't.

House had learned from observation how to play it cool, so he took his time, acting like he'd come to do regular business in the bathroom.

As he washed his hands, the lounging student spoke to him first.

"Great knock down," the guy said. "Military brat?"

House shrugged. "Not by choice."

The guy shrugged back. "Happens."

House nodded toward the guy's backpack. "Got a smoke?"

The slouching shoulder rolled again. "Got some grass."

He looked House over once.

"You get lit?"

House returned the half-shrug. "Sure."

The guy produced a joint. House licked his lips unconsciously.

"First time?" the guy asked.

House just shrugged again.

The guy lit the end, sucked on it, and passed it to House.

"Not like a cigarette," he said in a strained voice. "Take a big hit and keep it in long as you can."

House nodded and drew as much smoke as he could take. It tickled his throat and he suppressed a cough, passing the joint back. He knew how to smoke weed—he didn't need to be told. But he also knew not to correct the bearer of relaxation.

The guy released a thin cloud near the open window. "Passes the time," he commented, taking another puff.

House exhaled his first hit. "Something has to."

The guy nodded and passed the joint back. "Quentin Hollis," he said.

House filled his lungs again. "Greg House," he replied.

Quentin accepted the joint. "Your dad's home, huh?"

House flicked his head to the side and exhaled. "Yours isn't."

Quentin flicked his head, too. "'Nam's the best thing that ever happened to me."

House tossed his head again. He felt the drug begin to kick in. Dizzy. Calm. Different.

Quentin smiled wryly. "Good, huh?"

House hit the dwindling joint again and affected the same cool he'd had all day. "Not bad."

He didn't know who started it, but soon he was giggling with Quentin.

"Shit," House said with a grin as he took the last draw. He opened and closed his right fist. "My hand hurts."

Quentin snickered. "Shit."

The bell for the next period rang. House turned like a lapdog after a grinning "Thanks."

"Hang on."

House stopped and turned back. Quentin produced a bottle of cheap cologne and passed it to House.

"You get busted otherwise," Quentin explained. "Eye drops get rid of the red eye. Breath mints are important too." He hopped down. "Let me know if you want more."

House thanked him again and stumbled toward the exit.

This year would be different. Better. He knew it.


End file.
